King looked at the meticulous display with unabashed admiration. He kept his own possessions in perfect order, a fact well known to Michelle. His expression of unmitigated delight clearly registered with her, for while Remmy wasn’t looking, Michelle tapped King on the arm, gave an orgasmic shudder and then pantomimed having an after-sex cigarette.
“Where was the hidden drawer, if you don’t mind my asking?” said King after he finished scowling at his partner.
Remmy pulled one drawer out slightly and then tapped on the front of a flat piece of wood right below it. This popped open, revealing a small space about eighteen inches across and two feet deep. “A false front,” explained Remmy. “Looks like a piece of filler wood, but pulling out the drawer above primes a lever in the false front. Then tapping on the right upper corner of the false front triggers that lever, and it opens.”
King examined the mechanism closely. “Pretty clever.”
“Always wanted a secret drawer in my closet,” said Remmy. “Ever since I was a little girl.”
“But the person who robbed you didn’t know how to open it?” said Michelle.
“Junior Deaver didn’t know how to open it,” she corrected. “Just about every drawer in here was clawed and busted up. Cost me a pretty penny to fix it. I’ll be taking that out of Junior’s hide in civil court. Be sure and tell Harry that.”
“But how did anyone other than you even know there was a secret drawer in here?” Michelle wanted to know.
“Over the years I might have let that fact slip. I didn’t think anything of it, because we have at least what I thought was a first-rate security system.”
“And was the system on?” asked King.
“Yes, only there are no motion detectors on the third floor and the windows up here aren’t wired either. The system was put in years ago after a near tragedy. I guess the philosophy back then was that second-story men don’t venture to the third floor,” she added in disgust.
“What near tragedy?” asked King.
Remmy turned to him. “My son Eddie was kidnapped.”
“I never heard about that,” he said.
“It happened over twenty years ago, while he was still in college.”
“But everything turned out all right obviously,” said King.
“Yes, thank God. We didn’t even have to pay the five-million-dollar ransom.”
“Why not?” asked Michelle.
“The FBI tracked down the kidnapper and killed him in a shoot-out. In fact, Chip Bailey, the FBI agent who rescued Eddie and killed the kidnapper, lives near here. He still works for the FBI, over in Charlottesville.”
King said, “So no one was here when the burglary happened?”
Remmy sat on the edge of the large canopied bed, drumming her long, slender fingers against the carved bedpost. “Savannah was still at college. She’d graduated over the winter but decided to stay down there and have some postgraduate fun. I’m sure you could tell that my little girl truly loves her good times. Eddie and Dorothea were out of town. Mason, the household help, and Sally, the girl who handles the stables, live in the house in the far rear grounds. They wouldn’t have noticed anything anyway. My bedroom windows face a pretty isolated part of the rear grounds.”
“So you stay in the house by yourself?” asked Michelle.
“Bobby and me!” she said defiantly. “Our children are raised. We’ve done more than our share of giving friends and relatives a place to stay in our time. More often than not, this big old house was full over the years. Now it’s just our home.”
“But the night of the burglary the house was empty,” said King. “I understand you were at the hospital with Bobby?”
“That’s right, at Wrightsburg General.”
“But we were told you didn’t arrive back here until around five A.M.,” said Michelle. “Those are pretty long visiting hours.”
“I slept there in a private room down the hall from him that the hospital provided,” explained Remmy.
“That was pretty accommodating of them,” said Michelle.
“Our name’s on the building, sweetie,” Remmy said in a falsely polite tone. In a far more blunt voice she added, “Frankly, for fifteen million dollars, I thought it was the least they could do.”
“Oh,” said Michelle sheepishly.
“The police told me all the evidence leads to Junior, including his fingerprints.”
“But he was doing work here,” said King. “That could account for the print.”
“They found it on the outside of one of the panes of the busted window.” She added, “I hired Junior to work in my bedroom, not outside my damn window.”
“And I understand that things were stolen from Bobby’s closet as well.”
“It was broken into.”
“And what was taken?” asked Michelle.
“Come on, you can see for yourself.”
She led them out of her room and down the hall, where she opened another door. They found themselves in a room that reeked of cigar and pipe smoke. It was an intensively masculine room, Michelle noted. A shotgun rack hung over the fireplace, although there was no weapon on it. A pair of antique swords hung on another wall. They were crossed one over the other, forming a large X. There were several oil paintings of splendid horses. A pipe rack stood against one corner with a number of well-chewed pipes hanging from it. In another corner was a campaign desk and chair. The bed was small, and the nightstand next to it was stacked with magazines on fishing, hunting and science. One entire wall was devoted to photos of Bobby Battle. He was a tall, thick-chested man with dark, wavy hair and features seemingly cast in iron. In most of the photos he was either fishing or hunting, but there was one of him jumping out of a plane and another where he was piloting a chopper.
Remmy waved her hand in front of her nose. “I’m sorry for the smell. We’ve aired it out for days, and the smell’s still there. It must be in the carpet and furniture by now. Bobby loves his pipes and cigars.”
As Michelle looked around at Robert E. Lee Battle’s lair, images of the man seemed to flow to her apart from the photos: a bear of a man who lived life hard and took no prisoners. That such a man was lying now in a coma with bleak prospects of ever coming back made her very depressed, even though she’d never met him and was disgusted by his womanizing reputation.
Michelle pointed to several photos of Battle with large groups of people. “What are those of?”
“Some of Bobby’s employees. He was an engineer-turned-businessman. Holds over a hundred patents. Looking at this room, you might think my husband was all play and no work, but Bobby is, above all else, a hard worker. The things he invented, they all made money.”
“When did you two meet?” asked Michelle. She added quickly, “I know it’s a personal question, but he seems such a fascinating man.”
Remmy actually smiled at this. “He walked into my daddy’s clothing store in Birmingham, Alabama, forty-five years ago and announced that he’d seen me at several events and I was the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on and he was going to marry me. And he just wanted my daddy to know, although he said he wasn’t seeking permission, which was and in many ways still is the custom down there. He said the only person he had to convince of his intentions was me. Well, he did. I was only eighteen then and hadn’t seen anything of life, but I was no pushover. Yet he eventually won me.”
“Quite the whirlwind,” said King.
“He was ten years older than me. When we got married, he hadn’t made much money, but he had the brains to and the drive. He was special. And yet he wanted me.” This last part was said with surprising humility.
“Well, it’s not like you weren’t quite a catch,” said King sincerely.
“I suppose I was one of the very few to stand up to him. Oh, we had our peaks and our valleys like most folks,” she added quietly.
Remmy opened a door and motioned them in. “Bobby’s closet.”
The space was far smaller than his wife’s
closet but was still elaborately built out.
Remmy pushed back some pants hanging on rods and pointed to the side of one of the cabinets where a panel of wood had been broken out.
“There’s a secret cupboard there, about the same size as the one in my room. One of the drawers in this large cabinet doesn’t go all the way back, you see. It’s pretty clever, because from the front it’s almost impossible to judge how deep the drawers are. And you can’t see the little keyhole on the side unless you’re looking for it. I’ve been in here a million times, and I never noticed it.”
King shot her a glance. “So you didn’t know Bobby had a secret drawer?”
Remmy looked like a woman who’d realized far too late that she’d said far too much.
“No, I didn’t,” she said.
“What was stolen?”
“What does it matter?” she snapped. “I know what was stolen out of mine.”
“Remmy, you mean you don’t know what Bobby kept in there?” asked King.
She didn’t answer for a long moment. When she did, her tone was far more subdued.
“No, I don’t.”
CHAPTER
17
“OKAY,” SAID MICHELLE
once they’d left the house. “A psychiatrist could write an entire textbook on just Savannah and Remmy’s relationship.”
“Her not knowing what was in Bobby’s secret drawer is bugging the hell out of the woman,” said King as he glanced back at the mansion.
“And while her closet was all broken up, Bobby’s wasn’t. That’s significant.”
“Right. The person knew where Bobby’s secret cache was but didn’t have the key to open it.”
Before leaving the house they’d spoken with Mason and the other household help. Their answers were incredibly consistent: they’d all been in the house in the rear grounds and had seen and heard nothing when the burglary occurred.
King and Michelle got in the car, but instead of leaving, King steered his Lexus down the asphalt road leading to the rear of the property.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I met Sally Wainwright, the woman who handles the stables, at a horse event last year. Let’s see if she saw and heard nothing that night too.”
Sally was in her mid-twenties, cute, petite but wiry with long brown hair that she kept in a ponytail. She was mucking a stall when King and Michelle drove up. She wiped the sweat from her face with a cloth and came over to the car.
“You probably don’t remember me,” began King. “I spent the day with you at the charity dressage event in Charlottesville last year.”
Sally smiled broadly. “Of course, I remember you, Sean.” She glanced at Michelle. “You and Ms. Maxwell here are pretty famous now.”
“Or infamous,” replied King. He looked around at the stables and horses. “So do many of the Battles still ride?” he asked.
“Dorothea never has. Eddie does quite a bit. He’s into Civil War reenactments and has to saddle up sometimes in those.”
“Are you into that?” asked Michelle.
Sally laughed. “I’m from Arizona. I couldn’t care less about the Civil War.”
“I see Savannah’s home. She used to ride in competition, didn’t she?” asked King.
A slight look of annoyance crossed Sally’s face. “She used to.” King waited expectantly to see if Sally would put a defining exclamation point on that comment.
“She’s a great rider. Not so handy with mucking, grooming and dealing with people who didn’t grow up with silver spoons in their mouths.” Sally suddenly looked scared as though she’d spoken out of turn.
“Not to worry, Sally,” said King supportively. “I know just what you mean.” He paused and added, “Does Mrs. Battle ride?”
“I’ve been here five years, and she hasn’t saddled up once in that time.” Sally leaned on her muck rake. “I saw you drive in earlier. You just visiting?”
King told her why they were there, and Sally’s brow clouded as she anxiously glanced in the direction of the main house.
“I don’t know anything about that,” she said.
“So you were in your house with Mason and the rest the whole time, I suppose.”
“Right,” she said. “I go to sleep early. Have to get up at the crack of dawn.”
“I’m sure. Well, if anything occurs to you, let me know.” He handed her one of his business cards. She didn’t even look at it.
“I don’t know anything, Sean, I really don’t.”
“Okay. You ever see Junior Deaver around here?”
Sally hesitated and then said, “Couple times. When he was working here.”
“You ever speak to him?”
“Maybe once,” she said evasively.
“Well, you have a good day, Sally.”
They drove off. King looked in the rearview mirror at a very nervous Sally.
“She’s not telling us something,” said Michelle.
“That’s right,” answered King.
“Where to now?”
King pointed to a large house on the other side of the board-on-board fencing. “Two more Battles to go, and then we can call it a day,” he said.
CHAPTER
18
“SO THIS IS A CARRIAGE
house,” said Michelle as she climbed out of King’s car and stared at the approximately five-thousand-square-foot red brick structure. “I always imagined them to be bigger,” she added sarcastically.
“I guess it depends on the size of your carriage.” King glanced at the late-model silver Volvo station wagon parked in the motor court. “That’s Eddie’s car.”
“Let me guess, you’re clairvoyant?”
“No, but I see a Confederate soldier’s uniform and a painting easel in the back.”
Eddie Battle answered the door and ushered them in. He was a big man, at least six-two and packing over 220 very muscular pounds. He had unruly thick dark hair and striking blue eyes, and his features were strong and weathered by the elements. The hair came from his father; his mouth and eyes came straight from his mother, Michelle observed. However, there was nothing of her sternness and cold reserve about him; indeed, his boyish manner was ingratiating. He reminded her of a handsome, albeit older, California surfer dude.
He shook their hands and sat them down in the living room. His heavily muscled and thickly veined forearms were spotted with paint, and he was wearing what appeared to be cavalry boots with his faded jeans tucked inside them. His white work shirt had several holes in it and numerous paint stains; he was also unshaven. He seemed the antithesis of a rich man’s son.
He chuckled when he noted Michelle staring at his footwear. “I was killed last week during an ill-advised charge against a fortified Union position in Maryland. I wanted to die with my boots on, and I can’t seem to muster the energy to take them off. Poor Dorothea is growing very annoyed with me, I’m afraid.”
Michelle smiled and King said, “You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”
“Nope. My mother called a few minutes ago. She filled me in. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. We were gone when the burglary happened. Dorothea was at a Realtor’s convention in Richmond. And I fought in a fierce two-day reenactment in Appomattox and then drove straight over to Tennessee to catch the early morning light over the Smoky Mountains. I was painting a landscape,” he explained.
“Sounds pretty exhausting,” said Michelle.
“Not really. I get to ride around on horses and play pretend soldier and cover myself in paint. I’m a little boy who never had to grow up. I think it pains my parents to see what’s become of me, but I’m a good artist, though I’ll never be a great one. And on weekends I play soldier. I’m privileged and lucky and I know that. And because of that, I try to be modest and self-deprecating. Actually, I have a lot to be modest and self-deprecating about.” He smiled again and showed teeth so perfect in shape and color that Michelle concluded they were all capped.
“You’r
e certainly frank about yourself,” she said.
“Look, I’m the son of fabulously wealthy parents, and I’ve never really had to work for a living. I don’t put on airs, and what I do I do as well as I can. However, I know that’s not why you’re here. So go ahead with your questions.”
“Had you ever seen Junior Deaver around here?” asked King.
“Sure, he did a lot of work for my parents. Junior’s also done work